


Men That Strove With Gods.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Anticlimax, Community: contrelamontre, Methos Wins The Prize, Podfic Available, The Gathering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:28:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is always room to go on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Men That Strove With Gods.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [](http://contrelamontre.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**contrelamontre**](http://contrelamontre.dreamwidth.org/) (Dreamwidth community) forty-five minute Silent challenge. The title is from Ulysses by Alfred Tennyson.
> 
> * * *
> 
> tinypinkmouse made a podfic of this [available here](http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/965763.html) and [here](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/men-that-strove-with-gods). :D

Everything here is quiet now. Joe imagines he can hear the sound of swords and pain still reverberating through the walls, into his ears. He's heard enough of it; it's implanted deep in his head. He hears it in his dreams. In his nightmares. When he's doing a million little things that have nothing to do with watching.

He knows the sounds too well; their absence is shocking.

He slides his fingernails down the wood of the bench beneath him, thinks about striking up a beat against the groove. He imagines the church as a guitar, he imagines it filled with sound. No, not sound. Music. Music is sound without pain. Music is song without death. A swordfight, now that's a song about pain. It's a song about struggle. It's a song about death. Music can bring a room to its feet or tear a roof away to let the rain in, but when it's over, there is always another song. There is always life left, no matter how draining it may seem.

There is always room to go on, when the music ends.

He can tap against the wood, he can bring the beat into focus. He can hear music all around him, there is always something to play. Knuckles against wood. His cane against the floor. Lips make noise. Music is everywhere.

But it's quiet now.

Methos isn't even sobbing anymore.

Joe is watching him, but unofficially, you understand. This can't be official. Methos is outlaw now. The Watchers had decided to draw their line in the sand and Methos was on the wrong side of it. And so they would destroy Methos's history and break Methos's sword, if they could. It's a strange justice, but it's a historian's justice. They spend so much time dealing with words and blood, so they will burn Methos's words and spill his blood.

And, in turn, Methos has won.

Joe, to be technical about all this, is a hostage. He could not care a fuck less, to be even more technical. He could honestly laugh, if he still had that left. But he feels pretty fucking empty right now. About as empty as the church, with him and Methos and a headless body and the remnants of the final Quickening.

And Joe had watched as it had attacked Methos's body, as it had done whatever it is that these things do to Immortals. Joe, to be even more technical, really doesn't care anymore.

He thinks he stopped caring about the fifth year of this, but maybe that's being too generous. Maybe he's always been tired of this. Maybe he's been tired of this since the moment he signed his name on the dotted line after Vietnam, after he signed himself up for what turned out to be just another damn war. Nothing but another damn war.

Because the Watchers have declared themselves a side in this, siding against Methos, siding with an alliance of Immortals, and there are enough shifting alliances and death in all of this to make Joe want to throw down this game of Risk that has become his life and just start the hell over.

Methos, on the floor, twitches and groans.

This was supposed to make it all end. The last fight, yeah. But a Quickening on holy ground. That was supposed to be it. That was supposed to cause _something_ to happen. Joe watches the second hand go around on his watch another four times and wonders when that something is going to get around to happening.

Everything is still quiet.

The world is supposed to end, or something like that. There's supposed to be some sound and some fury, signifying something. Lightening is supposed to come down from the sky and strike them dead where they stand. Methos is supposed to explode. Or maybe his sword is. The lore is confused on the subject. But it's all perfectly clear: avoid Quickenings on holy ground, because bad things happen.

Or maybe the bad things that happen when there's finally a Champion is canceling out the bad that happens when that Champion kills on holy ground.

Or maybe the game is over now. Maybe it doesn't matter because it's over, it was over the moment Methos made his final move, and the rest of it is just damp ground after the storm's already moved on. Maybe there's nothing here now but something new.

"You feel like you can rewrite the rules?" Joe asks Methos. He taps his thumbnail against wood idly.

"I feel terrible," Methos admits.

"But not like the earth is about to swallow us whole?" Joe asks. "Or anything like that?"

"Maybe it's the calm before the storm," Methos says, and rolls over. He grabs for the hilt of his sword and closes his fingers around it. He pulls it close to his body, but doesn't make any move to stand up. "If all the forces of hell show up, tell them to take a number."

Joe snorts. "Yeah, and get back to you the day after never."

"Hey, if they'll agree," Methos says. "Go tell your Watcher buddies that their Champion wants a truce."

"I don't think they're interested in anything less than your head," Joe tells him. "Sorry."

"I'm the only thing holding back the result of a Quickening on holy ground," Methos says seriously. "Tell them that and then tell them I want a truce."

"You are so full of shit," Joe sighs.

"Yes, but how are they to know?" Methos asks. "Tell them it's over. Tell them no one wins this one. Tell them it's time to go to Disneyland, I don't _care_. Just tell them that it's over. Tell them that it better be."

Joe grumbles as he gets to his feet. "I'm supposed to be the hostage," he says. "Not the negotiator."

"Please," Methos says. "Like they would believe I would kill you."

"Yeah," Joe mutters. "Who'd believe _you_ were an indiscriminate murderer."

Methos seems to actually consider that, and then he lets go of his sword and it falls the few inches to the ground. "Well, tell them that you're being let out for good behavior," Methos says. "Unless you're actually going to obey their final order to you and strike me down in the aftermath. In which case, you can take a bloody number, too."

"My phone's in the car," Joe says. Hopefully it wasn't inside the blast radius from that Quickening. "When I get back, are you going to be okay, or will I need to drag you to safety?"

Methos nods. "I'll manage," he says.

"Good," Joe grumbles at him as he heads towards the door.

"And, Joe?"

Joe turns. "Yeah?"

"Thanks," the Champion says. "Couldn't have done it without you."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Men That Strove With Gods [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/313652) by [tinypinkmouse_podfic (tinypinkmouse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypinkmouse/pseuds/tinypinkmouse_podfic)




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